


Russian Fairy Yuri Plisetsky

by fireblazie



Series: raise a tiger verse [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: With the look of a man going to war, Yuri leans across the table, meeting Otabek’s gaze head-on. “Beka,” he says, hands balled into fists, “do you—like Messi?”





	Russian Fairy Yuri Plisetsky

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after [this tumblr prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11265324/chapters/25189554) within the 'raise a tiger' verse and might not make a whole lot of sense if you haven't read that. 
> 
> Anyway it is basically a mini Weightlifting Fairy AU lol blame superman

 

With the look of a man going to war, Yuri leans across the table, meeting Otabek’s gaze head-on. “Beka,” he says, hands balled into fists, “do you—like Messi?”

 

*

 

Looking back, it wasn’t his best moment.

(Otabek, though, still thinks it’s _hilarious_. That asshole.)

 

*

 

The summer after he graduates from high school, Yuri does—well. A lot of nothing, actually. Viktor and Yuuri seem to be doing enough work for him, intent on buying the best sheets for his dorm room, the best mini-fridge, the best coffee maker, the best everything. Yuri won’t lie: he does kind of like the bright orange Keurig they’d brought home for him one Friday afternoon, but buying him an entirely new set of luggage seems a little over the top.

“You know I’m only going to be, like, an hour away, right,” Yuri says flatly, watching Viktor and Yuuri lug in a Samsonite duffle bag. “I don’t actually _need_ half of this crap.”

Not that it’s not appreciated. Yuri likes the attention. Naturally.

“We just want to make sure that you’re comfortable,” Yuuri says, with such genuine affection shining out of those big brown eyes that Yuri kind of wants to strangle him. His crush had faded with time, but Yuri suspects that nobody ever _truly_ gets over Yuuri Katsuki.

“I’ll be fine,” Yuri says for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes. Not that it’ll stop them. He’s sure they’ll come home with something else for Yuri’s dorm in a couple of days.

(He’s not wrong. They come home with an electric talking rice cooker the following afternoon.)

At any rate, he spends most of June helping at the ice rink, doing everything from manning the front desk to coaching the beginner classes. Sometimes, he even gets to ride the Zamboni. It’s comfortably routine, if a little boring, but at least he’s kept busy enough that he doesn’t have too much time to think about things he’d rather forget.

And then June turns into July and Otabek Altin waltzes back into Ice Castle Yu-topia on a late afternoon in a sleeveless muscle shirt and a freshly trimmed undercut and everything goes to hell all over again.

 

*

 

_“Do you like Messi?” Yuri gritted out, hands balled into such tight fists Otabek could just imagine the crescent-shaped indentations his nails were making in his palms. Otabek shifted his gaze from Yuri’s hands to his face. The tension was even more evident there, perfectly portrayed in the clench of his jaw and the narrowed slits of his eyes. He had the eyes of a soldier._

_“Yes?” Otabek said, bemused._

_“Oh.” Yuri appeared to flounder for a second, but regained composure admirably. “Well. Cool. That’s. You know. Cool.” He bit into a scoop of rocky road ice cream and chewed angrily. Yuri had always been an angry chewer._

_“Do_ you _like Messi?” Otabek asked, for lack of anything else to say._

_“Yeah! Duh. Of course I do. What’s not to like? He plays great—” Yuri blinked rapidly. “—soccer?”_

_“No,” Otabek said, very seriously, “he plays great tennis.”_

_“Huh?” Yuri faltered, then glowered at him. “Are you making fun of me?”_

_In response, Otabek rested his elbow on the table, and his chin in his hand. “Is there something to make fun of?”_

_“Stop answering my questions with questions, dickhead!” Yuri hissed, brandishing his waffle cone like a sword. In Yuri’s hands, it very well could have been._

_“Yura,” Otabek said. Yuri glanced at him, startled. “Why aren’t you at prom?”_

_Yuri opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Otabek waited, because he had always been good at waiting._

_Yuri’s eyes were bright with righteous fury as he gulped down the last of his ice cream and slammed both hands on the table._

_“If you have to ask,” he snarled, “then you don’t deserve to know!”_

_And with that declaration, he stormed out. It was a very impressive example of storming out. Nobody else could storm out of a room like Yuri Plisetsky. Otabek watched him leave, and waited for him to come back. He never did, so Otabek cleaned off their table and left the shop, hands stuffed in his pockets, brain buzzing with a million and one thoughts._

 

*

 

“You,” Yuri says, “are an asshole.”

As always, Otabek lets the comment slide off his back like water. Yuri envies him that sometimes, the way he seems to go through life with such straightforward impassiveness that nothing seems to faze him. Instead, Otabek focuses his attention on the meat he’s grilling at the center of their table. Korean barbecue, along with the idea of making Otabek both cook and pay for Yuri’s dinner, had been immensely attractive at the time. Now, Yuri is torn between banging his head on the table and staring at Otabek’s biceps as he flips the thinly sliced cuts of pork and beef over.

Otabek starts making a lettuce wrap, stuffing it with slices of pork belly and kimchi before offering it to Yuri. Numbly, Yuri reaches out a hand and takes it, cramming the entire thing into his mouth. Otabek watches him intently before seeing something that apparently pleases him, because he nods once and then resumes his grilling.

 _Alcohol,_ Yuri thinks, fuzzily, _I need alcohol._

He flags down their waiter—Seung Gil, who skates at the rink sometimes on the weekends—and croaks out a single demand: _“Soju.”_

Seung Gil levels him with an unimpressed stare. “You’re underage.”

“I’m _Russian,_ ” Yuri squawks in indignation.

“An underage Russian,” Seung Gil says monotonously, his entire presence at odds with the bubbly K-pop playing in the background.

“ _He_ wants a bottle of soju,” Yuri says, jabbing a thumb in Otabek’s direction.

Seung Gil stares at Otabek before letting out a snort. “He’s underage, too.”

Yuri gapes.

“It’s true,” Otabek says, not at all helpfully. “I don’t turn twenty-one until October.”

“Can I get you anything else?” Seung Gil asks.

“I just _said_ ,” Yuri hisses, but Otabek calmly shakes his head and Seung Gil saunters away. Yuri flips him off, and then kicks Otabek under the table.

“One, you should definitely not tip him,” he said, stabbing at a piece of boneless short rib with relish. “Two, what the fuck? How does he know you’re under twenty-one? Are you two friends? What?”

“He’s a grad student,” Otabek explains. “He TAs for one of my physics labs. He’s tutored me before, too, when I was having a hard time with the material.”

“You don’t need tutoring from him,” Yuri says hotly. “He doesn’t look like he knows much.”

“Yura,” Otabek says patiently. “He’s one of the best in the department.”

Yuri doesn’t like the way this makes him feel. He doesn’t like having feelings at all, not really, but Yuuri had told him that they were good for him. Yuri thinks Yuuri is a fucking liar.

“He looks stupid,” Yuri mutters to himself, busying himself with making a lettuce wrap. He adds extra red pepper paste, just the way Otabek likes it, and holds it out.

Otabek stares at him. Yuri can feel the flush creeping up on his cheeks, and he leans over the table and presses the bundle to Otabek’s lips.

“Well?” Yuri demands. “Eat up.”

Otabek opens his mouth, and Yuri narrows his gaze to his lips, feeding him the lettuce wrap and grazing his bottom lip with his thumb as he pulls away. Otabek chews slowly, watching him the entire time. It’s uncomfortable and awkward and weird as hell, and yet Yuri can’t help but think that he’d rather die than look away.

“S’good,” Otabek says. “Thanks.”

Yuri coughs, turning away and breaking the spell. “Yeah. No problem.”

 

*

 

The sun is slowly making its descent when Yuri and Otabek step out of the restaurant and into the darkening streets of Koreatown. Yuri ducks into a small convenience store, dragging Otabek in behind him.

They wind up taking different paths around the store, and Yuri takes the opportunity to coerce the bored looking part-timer at the register to sell him the cheapest six-pack of beer in the store. It’s disappointingly easy, but almost worth it to see the resigned slump in Otabek’s shoulders when he catches a glimpse of Yuri standing in the front, holding his prize triumphantly.

“Drink with me,” Yuri says, leading them to a park bench overlooking an expanse of grass that badly needs cutting. It’s almost entirely empty, save for a group of teenagers kicking a soccer ball around. It reminds him of that goddamned Messi line, and he cringes at himself.

He hands Otabek a can of beer before popping open a can of his own. He takes a sip, humming quietly to himself. It’s—been a while. Since they’ve been together like this, soaking in each other’s presence. It’s been different, ever since Otabek went away to college, and the two-and-a-half-year age difference that had never posed a problem before had suddenly become an impassable divide.

He’ll blame it on the alcohol, later, though Yuri has had far, far stronger. He’s had to, to survive growing up with Viktor as a parental figure. He takes another hearty swig from his can and says, uncertainly, “I missed you.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You, too.”

Yuri lets himself watch Otabek, studying the lines of his profile against the Los Angeles sunset. Yuri has always been a greedy person, but Otabek makes him want impossibly more.

“So,” he says abruptly. “What have you been up to—with your—college—and stuff?”

“Not much,” Otabek says, swirling the beer around in his can. “Classes. Homework. Much better than high school.”

“I’ll join you in the fall,” Yuri says, trying to inject his usual bluster into his voice. He’s moderately successful.

Otabek turns to face him, something fond lurking in the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“And it’ll be like, you know, _before_ ,” Yuri insists, sitting up straight. “We’ll go out for ice cream after classes and we’ll go back to Ice Castle and skate around like we used to.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go back to the way things were before,” Otabek says.

Yuri tightens his grip on his beer. The can crumples between his fingers, beer sloshing out of the top. “What the _hell_ , Beka.”

“We’re older now,” Otabek hums. “Things are bound to change. Don’t you think?” He takes a drink, and Yuri is momentarily distracted by the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

 _That’s the thing,_ Yuri thinks, drinking miserably from his can, _they’ve already changed._

 

*

 

“Viktor told me you signed up to take a music class. You’ve never been interested in that before.”

Yuri glares at him from where he’s trying to climb into an abandoned Target shopping cart for no reason other than that he really wants to. The beers have given him a slight, pleasant buzz. “What do you know what I’m interested in,” he spits out bitterly. “You’re never _around_.”

“Most people start taking music lessons as children,” Otabek says, placing a hand on the middle of Yuri’s back to steady him. His hand is big and warm. Yuri doesn’t know what to do with that information. “I thought you might have a hard time.”

“Well, screw them!” Yuri hisses, finally settling into the cart so that his head is lolling against the front of it, legs folded awkwardly beneath the child seat. “I’m gonna—gonna learn the piano! I’m gonna be a goddamn piano prodigy! And—here, you know what, I’ll—I’ll play at concerts all over the world, and I’ll even play at your fucking wedding to that asshole Seung Gil! It’ll be the best Wedding March you’ve ever heard! So there!”

“No, thank you,” Otabek says placidly. “Instead of playing the piano, why don’t you stand next to me?”

Yuri peers up at him from beneath his bangs, shifting into a more comfortable position. The cart is more cramped than he’d thought it would be. “Idiot,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Why would I stand next to you instead of your stupid husband?”

Otabek starts pushing the cart down the street. Yuri cranes his neck upwards to look at him. “Just an idea,” Otabek says, quietly.

“Hmph.” Yuri rests an arm over the side of the cart. “Take me home,” he declares, waving his hand imperiously. “Before the dads have an aneurysm.”

Otabek makes an amused noise. When Yuri glances up, he’s smiling at him. Yuri grins back.

“As you wish,” Otabek says, directing the cart back to where they’d parked. Yuri falls in and out of a light doze, blinking awake when Otabek transfers him from the cart to the passenger seat of his parents’ old Honda, which he sometimes borrows when it’s too hard to transfer his belongings to and from university on his bike. The transition isn’t as smooth as it used to be when they were younger, especially now that Yuri has a solid two inches on him.

“Mm?” he mumbles.

“Just me,” Otabek says. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmkay,” Yuri says, patting him on the cheek. Otabek stiffens. “Where we goin’?”

Otabek resumes buckling Yuri’s seatbelt, looking away. “Home. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Yuri sighs. “Let’s go home, Beka.”

“Mm,” Otabek agrees. He mutters something underneath his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like “Home-before-your-dads-kill-me,” but Yuri falls asleep before he can think too much about it.

 

*

 

_“Instead of playing the piano, why don’t you stand next to me?”_

_“Why would I stand next to you instead of your stupid husband?”_

Yuri bolts up in bed.

_“Instead of playing the piano—”_

_“—why don’t you stand next to me?”_

His eyes widen in realization.

_“Instead of playing the piano—”_

Yuri slams his fists down onto his pillows.

_“Why don’t you stand next to me?”_

“That smooth motherfucker,” he growls, jumping out of bed. He pulls on his clothes and trips on his way out the door.

“Where are you going?” Yuuri asks, blinking at him over his cup of coffee.

“To murder someone,” Yuri says, tugging on his shoes.

“That’s nice,” Viktor says, exchanging glances with Yuuri over the kitchen counter. “Be home for dinner. We’re making pirozhki.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Yuri growls, already loading up Instagram on his phone. The first picture on his feed features J.J., Otabek, and two girls he vaguely recognizes. _#doubledate_ , J.J.’s tagged it, with a winking face emoji next to it. He hisses at the sight of it. “It won’t take that long.”

 

*

 

For Otabek, there has only ever been one single, universal truth:

Yuri Plisetsky will be the death of him.

(He doesn’t mind so much. There are worse ways to go.)

J.J. has forced him out on a double-date of sorts, despite Otabek’s valiant attempts to back out of it, so he finds himself at a hipster café, nodding politely at the girl sitting across from him. Her name is Mila, and he knows her a little bit from skating at Ice Castle. She used to lift Yuri up over her head all the time, though his growth spurt has made that slightly more difficult these days. She doesn’t let it stop her much, which Otabek admits is admirable in its own way.

“Poor kitten,” Mila is saying about Yuri as she takes a spoonful of tiramisu. “I think he’s pining, you know.”

Otabek keeps his face carefully neutral. “Is that right?”

“Oh, I’m just speculating,” Mila says, laughing airily. “Wouldn’t _you_ know better than most?”

Otabek raises an eyebrow. Mila smiles.

“I think it’s sweet,” Mila says.

Before he can answer, Otabek’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out and unlocks the screen, blanching at the text messages that greet him.

 

>   
>  **YURA:**  
>  YOU. DIE  
>  I WILL KILL YOU  
> 

He wonders if Yuri has finally figured out what he’d been trying to say last night, and if this is his response. He chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, staring at his phone. Across from him, Mila makes a sympathetic noise and lays a hand on his knee. He blinks at that, too.

Somewhere in the café, there is a crash and loud, unrestrained cursing.

Otabek glances up and is met with Yuri’s angry gaze, all the way on the other side of the store, next to the cash register. Slowly, Yuri drags his thumb across his throat, never once breaking eye contact, the universal gesture for death. Yuri has always had the eyes of a soldier. Even if he held the gun to Otabek’s head, Otabek could never look away.

Yuri storms up to their table, shoving J.J. back to his seat when he tries to stand up to greet him. He points accusingly at Mila’s hand on Otabek’s knee. Mila raises an eyebrow.

“Get your filthy hand off him,” Yuri growls.

Mila’s smile only grows wider. “But why ever should I?” she asks, syrupy sweet. She pats Otabek’s knee once, then twice. “Why do you care?”

Otabek recognizes the fury growing in Yuri’s face, the limits of his temper fast approaching. “Yuri,” he tries, but Yuri ignores him. The explosion is imminent.

“Who am I?” he roars. He shifts his pointing finger from Mila’s hand to Otabek’s face. “I’m this idiot’s boyfriend!”

J.J. promptly starts choking on his bagel. Mila is still smiling.

“Is that right?” she asks, falsely innocent as she turns to face Otabek.

Her hand is still on Otabek’s knee. Yuri’s face is turning more and more purple by the second.

He gently removes her hand, and goes to stand next to Yuri.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly pleased. Yuri’s hand finds his immediately, grabbing and holding on for dear life. Otabek squeezes his hand back. “That’s right.”

 

*

 

In the fall, Otabek shows up to help Yuri move his things into his new dorm. It’s mostly done by the time he gets there, largely due to Viktor’s influence.

“Well?” Yuri asks, gesturing at his room.

“It’s very orange,” Otabek says diplomatically, and Yuri flashes him a wide grin.

“I wish you would let us put you in a nice apartment,” Viktor says, not for the first time. Yuri rolls his eyes as Viktor surveys the room with a critical eye, tapping a finger to his chin. “Oh, Yura, are you _sure?_ It’s awfully small. You’re no longer that tiny little boy I took in, you know—”

“Leave,” Yuri says flatly.

Yuuri, thankfully, links his arm through Viktor’s, which is typically enough to distract him for a solid half-hour, in Yuri’s experience. “We’ll be going now. Call us if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yuri waves a hand halfheartedly. “Just go already.”

Viktor blinks, dragging his gaze away from Yuuri for a precious two seconds to focus sharply on Yuri. “Now,” he says, strangely serious, “you be _careful_ , Yura, and don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do—”

Yuuri coughs.

“Er, that Yuuri wouldn’t do?”

Yuuri coughs again.

Yuri begins to feel a little nauseated. “Get the hell out of here already!” he manages to choke out, shoving them both out the door. Viktor turns around last minute and pats his head lightly.

“Good luck, okay?”

Yuri never knows what to do with Viktor when he shows affection seriously like this. He far prefers it when Viktor hides it beneath his stupidity and sarcasm. Yuuri says it runs in the family. Yuri thinks he doesn’t know a damn thing.

“Yeah,” Yuri says, looking away. He doesn’t bat Viktor’s hand the way he usually would. “Okay.”

Viktor shifts his focus to Otabek, standing in the center of the room. “Otabek,” he says formally.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” Otabek says.

Viktor stares at him for a long while. Otabek meets his gaze squarely.

Yuri kicks Viktor in the ankle. _“Go already,”_ he hisses, and is gratified when Yuuri tugs Viktor away from the door. Yuri watches them make their way down the hallway, arms linked loosely together.

“So,” he says, turning back to face Otabek, who’s fiddling with a tiger humidifier that Viktor had absolutely insisted he needed for the next four years of university life. Otabek blinks at him. “Wanna go get ice cream?”

Otabek smiles at him, slow and wide. “Thought you’d never ask.”

 

**FIN**

 


End file.
